Ginnie Jinxed
by Fading Fast
Summary: What would happen if the curse was still in the bloodline of Ella even after she removed it from herself? What if, over time, it changed to DISobedience? What would happen if her descendent was born with the new curse? This is her story.


****

A/N: Hi. This is my first fic. So…be nice, please? If not, no matter. I never said I was gonna be nice back. Trust me, I can hold a mean grudge. And I can get revenge. Mwa ha ha ha haaaaa! Ahem, Anywho. Enjoy! Sorry it's so short, by the way.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything you recognize. Too lazy to write anything else.

Ginnie Jinxed

****

Chapter 1: Disobedience

It is strange about psychiatrists. I have been to many in my life, and they're all the same. They don't help at all. They just ask endless questions. This psychiatrist was no exception.

I was sitting in a big room with assorted toys all around. Toys for little kids. The psychiatrist had asked me if I wanted to play with them, but I point blank refused. No way. In the middle of the room sits a big mustard yellow comfy armchair, in which she is sitting in. Mustard yellow is a disgusting color, by the way. I have no clue why people would find it even remotely good-looking. Across from the ugly chair is the long, comfy dark brown couch that I'm sitting in. Another disgusting color. It reminds me of barf.

"Does your step-mother hit you, Virginie?" asks the psychiatrist, Claire, peering at me over her little notepad. I hate that note pad. I always hated the little note pad that the psychiatrists always have. I've always been dying to see what it says. I swear, one day I'm going to rip it out of some psychiatrist's hand and read it.

I sigh. How many times have I been asked this same question? My stepmother may be a horrible woman, but I know she would never hit me. "No, of course not."

"Do you have problems at home?" asks Claire. I guess I forgot to mention what Claire looks like. She's a middle-aged woman with long brown hair in a ponytail at the bottom of her neck, and plain brown eyes. She's not really ugly, and not really pretty. Just extremely plain. She had the kind of face that you would forget about half an hour later.

"No," I answer simply. Of course I have problems at home. Who doesn't? But I'm not going to give this Claire woman the satisfaction of knowing that.

"Do you like ice cream, Virginie?" asks Claire next, smiling kindly at me.

That was random. Where did that come from? "Yes."

"Isn't that nice?"

Couldn't she just simply say, "That's nice," without making it into a question? Is there some rule or law among psychiatrists that you can't make a statement? Of course, they can't even simply ask me _why_ I'm always disobedient. I'd be happy to tell them. But no, they don't ask. Bully for them.

See, ever since I can remember, I have had a curse. I've looked all over the Internet to see if anyone else ahs the same curse, but my case seems to be unique. The thing is, I can't obey anybody. Whenever somebody tells me to do something, I can't obey them. Sometimes I'm happy not to obey, but a lot of the time I really want to obey. But I can't. You may have thought this would make me want to be obedient and docile, but it hasn't. I'm a rebel. I always have been one. It may be because I have always hated everyone for not believing me that I have a curse that makes me disobedient. Or it may just be my nature. I don't know. All I know is I wish I could obey when I wanted to. For instance, if someone told me that I can never jump off a bridge and kill myself, I'd have to disobey and do it. I'm extremely clumsy, so whenever I knock into something, people have a tendency to say something like "Don't kill yourself there, Ginnie" and the curse pushes me to disobey. But, luckily, I have always managed to get them to tell me to kill myself (usually making a complete fool of myself in the process). But I might not be able to make them say that one day. I'm in danger every second.

Anyway, I went back to my house where my stepmother lived. I suppose my father thought he loved her and that she was a good person, but ever since he died, she's been treating me like a slave. I think it's because she blames me for my father's death. I don't remember my father at all. All I know is he was in a plane crash with my real mother when I was a baby. My stepmother told me that all my relatives disappeared that same day. And good riddance, too, she said. They were horrible people, she claimed. I don't believe her, though. And I will never give up until I find my relatives and the reason my father married this horrid woman. I will continue looking for them until I find them. I have already hired several detectives with some money I stole from my stepmother. Her bloody fault that she told me not to steal any money from her.

"Virginie!" screams my stepmother, Patricia, the moment I walk in the door. "Come into my bedroom this minute!"

My house is almost a mansion. Everything is clean and tidy. Nothing is out of place. Servants and maids are constantly cleaning things until they shined with cleanliness. I hate how clean everything is. It makes the place seem foreign. That's why my room is my refuge. Patricia doesn't care what I do with my small room, really, so I can do whatever I want with it. It has posters of all my favorite bands and singers (mostly Eminem, Evanescence, Good Charlotte, Simple Plan, and bands like that). My clothes are all over the place and my bed is never made. I have a big bookcase on the side of my room overflowing with books. In all it's messy-ness, I love it.

Now, back to the story. Where was I? Ah, yes, Patricia had ordered me to come to her.

Of course, since she ordered me, I can't.

"I can't!" I yell back.

I hear her growl in anger. The next thing I know, she is walking angrily down the steps. I see her as she enters the front hall. She's in an ice blue dress. Her dark brown hair is pulled back into an elegant bun, and her cold, ice blue eyes are glaring at me. I, on the other hand, am wearing my favorite black pants and a bright red t-shirt over a bright orange long-sleeved shirt. Red and orange are my two favorite colors. My long, bright red hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail. My spice green eyes are my favorite feature. I hate my pale skin and freckles. Although I _am_ beginning to get less freckles. Something I am extremely glad for. I am also way to skinny. I hate that. I eat every second of the day, but still no weight. I want to strangle anybody who complains because they're too fat. At least their not skinny, short, and clumsy with unnaturally small feet.

"Virginie Eleanor!" she screams, stomping her foot like a little kid. "Why do you insist upon disobeying everybody? Tell me, you rodent!"

"I can't," I reply simply. Maybe if she didn't _demand_ that I tell her, I could. She wouldn't believe me anyway, though.

"Tell everybody exactly why you disobey everyone!" she roars again, looking like she's about to explode.

Damn. She did _not_ just say that. Now it's impossible for me to tall anybody. What if I finally find someone who will believe me, and I can't tell them. This sucks.

"I can't."

"Go to your room, you rodent!" she growls. What is she, some kind of animal? With all her roaring and growling that she does, I wouldn't doubt it.

Wouldn't she ever learn that if she told me not to do something, I'd do it? "I can't. Tell me not to go to my room, and I will."

She narrows her ice blue eyes at me. "Do not go to your room, Virginie Eleanor."

I go.

As soon as I arrive at my room, I lie on my bed and think. How can I break this curse? Will I _ever_ be able to? I can only hope to whatever is out there.


End file.
